


Destroy Everything You Touch

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Identities, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Police, Ambiguous/Open Ending, American Mafia, Attempted Murder, Badass, Barebacking, Begging, Betrayal, Choking, Consent Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Dark Character, Death Threats, Drama, Dubious Consent, Espionage, Evil Derek, Explicit Sexual Content, Fucked Up, Gangsters, Gritty, Guns, Hardboiled, Illegal Activities, Internal Conflict, M/M, Marathon Sex, Menace, Moral Ambiguity, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Canonical Size Difference, Organized Crime, Plotty, Power Dynamics, Psychology, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rough Sex, Secret Identity, Sexual Violence, Size Kink, Stalking, Suspense, Teasing, Theft, Thriller, Trust Issues, Twisted, Unsafe Sex, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's weird, being two people at once, and picking which one of them the world gets to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destroy Everything You Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brief_and_Dreamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brief_and_Dreamy/gifts).



> Written for Melusina as part of the Big 24 Fanathon. I hope you'll forgive me for being unconscionably late, Melusina! Maybe the fact that I've written a story more than four times the length I'd pledged will make up for it!

* * *

 

It's three hours before Scott stops being Scott, before he goes from being a dyed-in-the-cloth narc to being Jimmy McNeil, smalltime crook and thug for hire. Scott's spent the past few weeks preparing his cover, memorizing an entire fictional personal history, from an orphaned childhood to incarceration in several youth correctional facilities. Scott's been practicing Jimmy's smile - Jimmy's quite the charmer - and Jimmy's swagger, as well. Jimmy's a good shot and an incorrigible flirt - more of a flirt than Scott is, anyway.

Scott has never been undercover for more than two months. This time, he'll be under for at least ten. It feels a lot like being poised at the edge of a thousand-mile swimming pool, and knowing he's going to have to hold his breath for every single mile. Stay under as long as he can. As _deep_ has he can. And never come up for air if he can help it.

"No matter how many criminals you start caring about, and you _will_ start caring about them," Commissioner Stilinski warns, "never forget that they're criminals. Never forget that you're the law."

"Scott's about as likely to forget he's the law as Pluto is likely to forget it's a planet. Oh, wait," Stiles says, from behind Scott. "Seriously, Dad? We're putting enough pressure on Scott as it is. Just let him do his job and quit lecturing him."

"First, stop calling me 'Dad'. I'm your goddamn _chief_."

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Second, I can and will lecture my boys as much as I want to. _Because I'm the goddamn chief_."

Scott smiles. "Aww, sir, you think I'm one of your boys?"

The commissioner grunts. "Get outta here."

Scott gets outta there, but Stiles sticks to him all the way through to the door of the police station, through Scott handing in his badge and his gun and through the last pile of paperwork discharging Scott's current cases. Stiles has been his partner for years and his friend for a decade; they grew up in the same neighborhood and went to the same high school and even attended officer training together. Stiles is more apprehensive about Scott going undercover than Scott is, because they've always been more worried about each other than they've been about themselves. It's what they do. They're brothers, in every sense that counts.

When Scott's at the door, Stiles stops him.

Stiles's mouth twists. "I wish you weren't doing this," he says. "I wish you weren't going where I can't back you up."

Scott shrugs. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"Just come back alive. And intact."

"I'll try," Scott says, and hugs Stiles goodbye.

*

There's an ex-con named Gianni that's set 'Jimmy' up to be the new go-to guy for minor burglaries on behalf of the Hale group. Gianni's cooperating with the investigation on account of shortening his wife's sentence, because she's still in jail for her own drug-peddling gig. Love, Scott reflects, is the other great equalizer. Everyone in the criminal world is familiar enough with death. Gianni acts like he's in perpetual danger of getting iced, which he _is_ , since he's betraying the Hales. Scott had to bargain like the devil himself to convince Gianni to help him find a place in the gang, to assure Gianni that in exchange, he'd be seeing his wife in three years, not ten.

Scott plays it cool as he's introduced to Isaac, Boyd and Erica, the team he's supposed to be robbing a jewelry store with. He needs to feign ignorance, like he doesn't already know everything there is to know about them, from their records to their families to their allies in the penal system. Boyd is calm and unshakeable; Erica is cheerfully vicious; Isaac is deceitfully childlike and prone to bouts of sudden violence. They're uniformly suspicious of him, as they should be, but when the robbery goes off without a hitch and Scott opens the store's safe for them, they thaw toward him considerably. And when their _fourth_ take - an art heist - also goes smoothly, Scott's treated to drinks at the Saville, the Hales' customary hangout. Scott itches to bug the place, but quashes the urge, because he isn't a narc now. He's Jimmy. Jimmy, a professional thief desperate to prove himself.

"Man, you have to meet the boss," Isaac says. "He always, heh, _appreciates_ fresh talent." Isaac winks in a way that... isn't ambiguous, at all.

That's when Scott decides how he's going to do this. It makes him uncomfortable, but it isn't any more discomfiting than, say, stealing from someone while he's undercover. In fact, it's less discomfiting, because at least he won't be harming anyone. If he can win the Hale boss's favor, he'll be admitted into the inner circle sooner than if he just keeps slogging it out at the lower levels.

It won't be the only time Scott's fucked someone for intel.

*

As it happens, 'Jimmy' doesn't have to wait much to encounter Derek Hale, because Derek makes an appearance himself, on a Saturday evening at the Saville, dressed in a suit sharp enough to slice through butter. He looks no different from the photos the police has of him; he's as broad-shouldered and intimidating as ever, his expensive tailored clothes somehow emphasizing his brutishness rather than obscuring it. As Derek walks toward him, Scott is reminded of the loping stride of a wolf, predatory and dangerously silent. The muscles of Derek's arms and thighs flow with all the grace of a panther's limbs, visible through the silken, clinging material of his suit, and his eyes narrow speculatively as they focus on Scott.

There's an appreciation in them, an appreciation that Jimmy-the-flirt returns without hesitation, lounging back in his chair and quirking a saucy grin that has (thus far) gotten Scott useful tidbits of information from the various waitresses of the Saville.

Given the flare of heat in Derek's eyes, it's working on him, too.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Didn't your Mama teach you manners, kid? You ought to stand up when greeting your betters."

"Didn't have no Mama," Scott drawls, melting into an even more sensuous sprawl on his chair, "but I wouldn't mind _you_ bein' my Daddy. Teachin' me a lesson or two."

Derek's eyebrows climb even further.

Isaac jabs Scott with his elbow. "That's the boss, numbskull! Show some respect!"

Scott drops his jaw in surprise, because Jimmy hasn't seen Derek before, but Jimmy doesn't panic, because Jimmy McNeil doesn't _do_ panic. Scott, however... Scott's heart is in his mouth, pounding away at the casual flexing of Derek's giant fists, fists that could probably pulverize him into a powder finer than the purest crack cocaine. It's just beginning to occur to Scott that he's literally volunteered himself to be screwed into oblivion by this monster of a man, and Derek may or may not be gentle. Crap.

Jimmy, though, _wants_ all that power pitted against him, on him and in him, throwing him onto the nearest available surface and fucking him senseless. Jimmy's kind of crazy - no sense of fear whatsoever. Maybe it's the years he's spent in jail, but getting nailed by giants twice his size has become an acquired taste. Jimmy's grown used to it, even desirous _of_ it, and yeah, Jimmy's got issues, but he's been surviving within the protection of one 'Daddy' or another ever since he was an eighteen-year-old twink trapped behind bars, and he's learned to enjoy the ride. It was either that, or kill himself. And Jimmy's too bloody cunning to give up when he can use sex to his advantage.

Scott allows Derek to see that on his face, the desire for protection _and_ domination, even as he gets up and sketches an exaggerated bow, his grin turning sly. "I got manners," Scott says, straightening up and fixing Derek with a come-hither gaze. "I got _plenty_ of manners. 'Specially when I'm on my knees." Scott has no idea how he manages not to blush for that line, but Jimmy's determined to brazen his way into Derek's bed, and once Jimmy's made a decision, that's that.

It's weird, being two people at once, and picking which one of them the world gets to see.

Except that Scott's a sheep in wolf's clothing, among the wolves, which is a hell of a lot riskier than being a wolf in sheep's clothing, among the sheep. Scott is prey among natural predators. Despite how safe it might seem, Scott is always _this_ close to being torn to pieces. Pieces that won't be identifiable during an autopsy.

Jimmy doesn't budge - doesn't so much as flinch - when Derek stalks toward him, when Derek gives him a once-over that's half clinical assessment and half shameless lust.

Scott would personally prefer to run the heck away. Possibly to the circus. Shit, shit, _shit_.

"So, you're the newest pawn on my chessboard," Derek muses, and Scott realizes the weakness in his disguise when Derek cups his throat, his palm as huge as a lion's paw and just as threatening. After all, Scott can hide anything else, but he can't conceal the speed of his pulse. He can discern by the consideration in Derek's expression that Derek _has_ caught that odd discrepancy. Hopefully, Derek will interpret it as pre-sex adrenaline, and not as... not as proof of falsehood. "Jimmy McNeil. I've been told about you. Although I wasn't told about your eagerness to be my catamite."

"Cata-what?" Scott blinks, like he hadn't scored a perfect 2400 on the SAT. He nuzzles into Derek's hand when it shifts to cradle his face, affectionate and pliant as a pet, immediately recognizing a master. He doesn't resist when Derek reels him in, and shivers subtly - realistically - when Derek's lips brush his ear.

"You're a clever boy, aren't you?" Derek whispers, too low to be overheard by others. "Twenty-something and wiry and just pretty enough to capture my attention. But you listen to me. I ain't no fool, kid. You're playing at being an omega, but you're not. I can tell. I can _smell_ it on you. Am I to believe you let men do you on the regular, as long as they're stronger than you are? Bullshit. You've got too much pride for that. Too much pride in your - " Derek bites the soft lobe of Scott's ear " - performance."

By this point, Scott is all but frozen - Jimmy's easy compliance has turned into a brittle, nervous energy that yearns to explode from him in some sort of defensive movement - planting a knee in Derek's stomach or bashing his forehead into Derek's nose. But a single wrong step will get him shot - Derek's bodyguards are flanking him like particularly bulky shadows - so Scott remains where he is and lets Derek slip his hand behind Scott's nape, tangling his fingers painfully in Scott's hair.

"But maybe that's why I want you," Derek continues, as calm as if he can't simply snap Scott's neck on a whim. "Maybe I want you _because_ you're a tricky little thing, because you won't truly submit to me. But remember... you're only entertaining if you aren't a traitor, if you're just a firecracker ambitious enough to want your boss's dick. If you end up being a cop, kid, or a snitch, or a spy for the Argents, you're _dead_. Even if it means I have to strangle you myself, _while_ I'm literally fucking you to death. You get me?"

"I get you," Scott croaks, then beams brightly, manically, like he isn't shaking in his proverbial boots. Derek enjoys what he perceives as Jimmy's intelligence, his durability - which are, interestingly, the parts of Jimmy that are most similar to _Scott_ \- so those are the qualities Scott's going to showcase, without actively trying to recall that Derek's entirely capable of fulfilling his pledge to murder Scott, given that Derek's infamous for having killed his own uncle to gain control of the group, _and_ his rival, Deucalion, _and_ Victoria Argent, the former matriarch of the Argent family. "But I'd rather have you. In me."

"Oh, you will." Derek's grip on him relaxes, and before Scott can mentally prepare himself, he's being urged out of the Saville's main seating area and toward the stairs that lead to what are presumably a bunch of private rooms, and when Scott casts a last glance behind himself, he spots Boyd, Isaac and Erica staring after him, looking terrified. They obviously hadn't thought their pal would become the boss's latest squeeze, even though Isaac had joked about it.

Jimmy flashes them an encouraging smile.

Scott grinds his teeth _behind_ that smile.

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Right?

*

Jimmy McNeil's career in the mafia develops with astonishing speed once he starts sleeping with Derek Hale. Doors open to him that wouldn't have opened if he hadn't opened his legs. People are willing to talk to him that wouldn't have noticed him, otherwise. It's ridiculously helpful for Scott's data-gathering, but Jimmy loves it all, too, and flaunts his status at every available opportunity. Sure, he pisses some folks off, but he influences most. No one wants to accidentally offend Derek by insulting his - his _catamite_.

Because Jimmy's a lot more than just a catamite. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

Derek, notorious for fucking random men and women with almost no regularity, settles into fucking Jimmy every night, hungry as he's never been for anybody else. It startles Scott as much as anything can startle him; he'd expected to be an amusing distraction, not a staple diet. But Derek presses Scott onto his 1000 thread-count sheets as soon as Scott returns from his heist of the day, refusing to let Scott bathe, reveling in Scott's scent and pressing his mouth against Scott's shoulder and fucking him and fucking him - sometimes hard and steady, sometimes slow and languid, licking the sweat from Scott's skin as Scott trembles and comes for the second time. Or the third time. Or -

The thing is - and Scott would be genuinely _relieved_ by this if it didn't mess with his head - the thing is that Derek isn't, actually, cruel in bed. Occasionally, he gets rough, but only when Scott's driven to begging for it - and even then, Derek mostly just keeps Scott on the brink, rocking into him without picking up the pace, watching Scott fall apart with a victorious gleam in his eyes.

Derek's fondness for teasing Scott is limitless; after they've fucked and Scott is face-down on the mattress, catching his breath, Derek strokes light fingers along Scott's spine, over and over, until Scott's breathing is quickening again, until a subterranean quiver makes his hole clench around the unbearable emptiness inside of him, an emptiness he'd never experienced as unbearable before Derek began fucking him, before Derek began staying _in_ him afterward, gathering the come leaking out of Scott and spreading it over Scott's cock before jerking him off. When Derek _doesn't_ stay in him, it's solely to torment Scott with that emptiness, to unnerve Scott with faint, barely-there touches until Scott gives in and _asks_ for it, asks Derek to fuck him, to _break_ him, to not be careful about it, please, please, _please_.

Scott isn't ashamed when he begs; it gets him what he wants, both in terms of orgasms and veracity. Derek doesn't trust Scott as far as he can throw him - after Kate Argent's old betrayal of him, Derek doesn't trust anyone - but he _has_ taken to letting Scott sleep beside him after recalling a bodyguard into the bedroom. He permits Scott to putter around his house in the mornings, sleepy and yawning, using the stainless pots and pans in Derek's cemetery-like marble kitchen (seriously, all that's missing is a tombstone) to bring it back to life, to burn pancakes in it and fry eggs in it and then force Derek to eat what he cooks, which, miraculously, Derek does. The once-empty fridge is filled with greater and greater amounts of ingredients everyday, which Scott takes as the hint it is and commences cooking Derek dinner, too. What Scott produces can't be anywhere near as fancy or delicious as whatever Derek's official chef must've made, but whoever the chef was has clearly been fired after Scott's arrival. Perhaps Derek's a masochist, not a sadist, despite all evidence to the contrary. Scott's rendition of meatloaf leaves much to be desired.

"They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Derek responds, when Scott tries to ask Derek _why_ he apparently relishes Scott's substandard cooking, but Scott only snorts.

"Yeah, no. The day I reach your nonexistent heart is the day you kill me."

"True," Derek agrees, with deceptive joviality, and follows Scott into the shower, which of course results in Scott's soapy legs clamped tightly around Derek's waist as Derek fucks him with infuriatingly idle thrusts while giving him the laziest handjob known to humanity.

"You're _already_ killing me," Scott groans, smacking his skull back against the bathroom tiles, and Derek smiles - a shark's smile that reminds Scott exactly who he's dealing with, and causes Scott's dick to twitch and leak in Derek's grasp.

Derek's smile widens. "Oh, if I was killing you, you'd know."

*

Scott checks in with headquarters whenever he can, updating them with the names he's gathered, although none of it will be actionable intelligence until Scott's left the group safely and Derek can't do anything to him even if he _does_ pin him as the mole. Scott also has to detail every illegal activity he himself has had to participate in, while undercover, to avoid being fired from the force for profiting from his crimes once this operation is complete.

Jimmy lives in a ratty apartment adjacent to the Saville, and because Scott is aware that the mafia is as likely to plant bugs as the police, he doesn't make those calls to headquarters from Jimmy's room. He makes them while he's walking _to_ it, on those rare days Derek's too busy to fuck him.

Scott chats briefly with Stiles at the end of each call, and Stiles is palpably scared for him when Scott mentions that he's risen up the ranks much faster than he'd anticipated. Scott can't quite bring himself to _say_ he's sleeping with a sociopathic mafia don, but Stiles is smart enough to pick up on the subtext, and it predictably freaks him out.

"Tell me you don't give a shit about this asshole," Stiles says, and he sounds both frightened and stubborn. "Tell me it's just the - the tactical advantage of it, or - I _know_ you, Scott, you can't sleep with anyone without starting to _feel_ for them - "

"Don't be stupid. I'm not getting attached to Derek fucking Hale. He's the biggest fish we can ever hope to hook, the guy at the center of a drug-and-prostitution ring the size of a small country, not to mention the racketeering and the thefts and the extortion of local businesses."

Stiles huffs. "Listing his crimes isn't the same as hating him. Or even being indifferent to him."

"That isn't - "

"Think about it. For your own sake. Before you took on this role, you wouldn't have cared if he died. Do you still not care?"

An image flashes through Scott's mind - Derek motionless in a pool of his own blood - and a sick jolt shakes Scott from within, temporarily destroying his capacity for speech.

"That bad, huh?" Stiles says. "Damn."

"I can still do my job," Scott insists.

"I don't doubt that you can," Stiles replies, quietly. "Just try not to lose yourself while doing it."

"I won't."

And Scott hangs up.

*

Scott's newfound dread of Derek potentially dying goes from being an inconvenience to being a bomb that blows up in his face, just like that. One moment, Rick the pimp is handing over the books for Derek's biggest brothel, like he has to every fortnight, because Derek's obsessive about controlling every aspect of his 'businesses', and inspects the books himself, to prevent his employees skimming a bit of cream off the top. Rick's got that constipated look folks tend to get around Derek, when they're petrified but attempting to appear like they're not. It shouldn't be as hilarious as it is.

The _next_ moment, Rick's pulling a gun out of his jacket and aiming it at Derek, and Scott's closer to Rick than either of Derek's bodyguards. He moves before he's even conscious of doing it. There's a bang as Rick's gun goes off, but it shoots into the ceiling, because Scott's just grabbed Rick's arm and shoved it back and up. As plaster rains onto them from above, Scott sweeps Rick's feet out from under him while simultaneously breaking two of Rick's fingers and taking his gun from him, before bashing Rick's head with said gun until Rick slumps to the ground, unconscious.

There's a ringing silence. Everyone's gaping at Scott. At Jimmy, who's a thief but not a fighter, let alone a fighter who can defeat an armed opponent in less than a minute.

Fuck.

"My, my," Derek says, his eyes clear as cut glass and unerring on Scott's, lit with an uncanny, ravenous light. "That was _beautiful_. I don't think I've seen a take-down as efficient as that in... years, certainly."

Scott doesn't gulp, or run, or do any of the things his lizard brain is telling him to do. He'll survive this. Fabricate an excuse. Maintain his cover.

But Derek's studying Scott like he needs to fuck the truth out of him. Or torture the truth out of him. Scott can't be sure which it is, and what's worse is he doesn't _want_ to be sure.

Derek looks stark, carnivorous, but his tone remains even, unchanging. "Should I be grateful you saved my life, or paranoid about this heretofore hidden skill-set of yours?" Derek nudges Rick's body with his shoe, and gestures at his bodyguards to dispose of it. "Why would you hide your ability to fight? Like a pro, no less? Was it to seem more vulnerable, more appealing? Or was it for some darker motive, that you had to keep secret from me? And if it was that important to keep it secret, why save me with it now?"

Scott has no clue why he did it, either. Getting rid of the leader of the Hale group would only make the world a cleaner place. Wouldn't it?

And yet, Scott has saved Derek. Maybe it's because Derek had once murmured, "Cora used to ruin these," when Scott had made him waffles, and Scott had suddenly understood why Derek liked Scott's food, and how badly Derek missed having a home, filled with people he loved.

Maybe it's because Scott's realized Derek _can_ love.

Not that Derek loves _him_. What Derek has with Scott is a strange, distorted facsimile of companionship, but it isn't companionship. Which is proven even further when Derek takes Scott to bed that night and screws him harder than he's ever done, bruising Scott inside and out. Scott comes all over himself, shouting, but Derek doesn't stop fucking him, the headboard banging rhythmically against the wall.

"You see," Derek pants, afterward, "I don't know what to make of this. Of you. Are you just a petty thief who dabbles in martial arts, or are you a trained infiltrator who's been lying to me all along?"

"I wasn't - wasn't lying - "

"Don't overdo it, _Jimmy_ ," Derek sneers, and wraps his hands around Scott's neck.

Scott goes very still.

"There's something in you I can't have, I can't _reach_ ," Derek says, his eyes wild and starved as his thumbs dig into the sides of Scott's throat. "That's the only reason I haven't offed you yet, the only reason I haven't given into my instincts and erased you before you - before - "

Derek growls, and Scott thinks he's on the verge of being choked, of being strangled just like Derek had promised, but then Derek loosens his hold and bends to kiss Scott instead, wet and filthy and hot, and Scott kisses back greedily, because he's inhaling Derek's oxygen, because his lungs are aching for some goddamn air.

"You won't leave me," Derek snarls when he pulls away, when he leaves Scott gasping on the sheets. "You _can't_. No matter who you are - who you _pretend_ you are - you're _mine_. "

"I'm yours," Scott echoes, and for just that instant, he means it.

*

It isn't unexpected when men trail Scott to his apartment, when black cars park themselves just across the street, their windows tinted and their drivers invisible. Derek's monitoring Scott 24/7, as he should, given Scott's increasingly sketchy portrayal of Jimmy McNeil. Scott gets up every morning - even the mornings he wakes in Derek's bed - calculating the odds of living through the day. They aren't spectacular.

Under such constant surveillance, it's inevitable that Scott's going to slip, and when he does, he's done for.

Scott isn't bothered by it, though. He's become Zen about it, because it's either that or go nuts imagining how it'll end, whether Derek will do the honors himself or whether he'll delegate Scott's vivisection to lackeys with a creative approach to murder.

Nah. Derek will do it himself. He'll want to make Scott _pay_.

Thankfully, Scott no longer has to call headquarters, because the final stage of the operation is finally underway, and it's too late for Derek's spies to catch Scott mid-conversation with the police. Scott's already passed on the date and precise location of Derek's meeting with a renowned drug smuggler, and all that remains for Scott to do is wait.

The clock is ticking. Either the raid on Derek's primary warehouse for drugs will succeed in nabbing the smuggler _and_ Derek, or it won't. Either Derek will discover who Scott really is _before_ the raid - in which case the whole op will be a failure - or he won't, and Scott will escape unscathed. In the meantime, Scott has to carry on fucking Derek, like nothing's amiss.

Four days till the raid.

Three.

Two.

One -

*

Zero.

It's well past sunset. There's no sign of Derek, which indicates the raid's been a success, because otherwise, Derek would've summoned Scott for a celebratory fuck. It's what Derek always does, when he sees money on the horizon.

But Derek won't be doing that, anymore.

Scott packs his meager belongings, ditches the goons stalking him, and vanishes into the night.

Jimmy McNeil is gone.

*

The drugs bust is one of the largest in the nation's history. Scott gets plenty of congratulatory pats on the back when he returns to normal duty, because his intel led to the incarceration of seventy percent of Derek Hale's gang - including Isaac, Boyd and Erica - not to mention the gang of the dealer Derek was buying from.

The only trouble is, Derek himself has disappeared. It's a major disappointment, for Scott and for the police, but at least they have enough on Derek now to convict him when they _do_ arrest him, and this time, he'll be in jail until he's a doddering geezer in dentures.

Scott's put on his case, with Stiles, and Scott tells himself it's okay, that there isn't a conflict of interest, that he absolutely _will_ put Derek behind bars, because if he doesn't, it's his own life that'll be cut short. Scott hasn't forgotten Derek's threat to kill him, if he ever turned out to be a cop.

*

Months later, Detective Scott McCall receives a postcard addressed to 'Jimmy', saying that they'll meet again. The postcard isn't signed by anybody, but it isn't like Scott doesn't recognize that handwriting.

Derek has tracked him to where he lives. Derek can _find_ him.

Scott knows the standard protocol for these situations. He knows he should report that postcard.

He never does.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this amazing song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTTwlAT_AwU) by Ladytron.
> 
> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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